One Night with a Gorgeous Greek: Doukakis's Apprentice / Not Just the Greek's Wife / After the Greek Affair. Sarah Morgan
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in the apartment tonight.’ He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a plastic card. ‘Take the lift up to the top floor. This opens the door. The security is more sophisticated than the Bank of England. You’ll be safe there.’
He was offering her sanctuary from the press?
The unexpected gesture destabilised her. Staying in the apartment would mean she could carry on working and clear some of the backload. ‘Well, that’s—if you’re—thanks,’ she said gruffly. ‘How do you plan to avoid them?’
‘My car is in the underground car park.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I have to go, but tomorrow we’re going to talk about that presentation of yours. I have questions.’
‘Right. But I can’t talk tomorrow. I’m going to Paris for a client meeting.’
‘What time is your flight?’
‘I’m not flying, I’m catching the train. It leaves at seven- thirty. The meeting is in the evening.’ Realising how that sounded, she coloured. ‘They moved the meeting after I booked my train.’
‘And you thought you’d have a day in Paris.’ The brief moment of harmony had been blown away and contempt was stamped on his hard, handsome face.
His continued censure was too much for her after a long and stressful day and she glared at him defensively. ‘It was an economy ticket. I couldn’t move it.’
‘I’ve seen the company expense account.’
‘No, you’ve seen the directors’ expense account.’
‘Who are you meeting in Paris?’
‘Gérard Bonnel, the Vice President of Marketing for Santenne. He was there when we pitched for the business. Now he wants to go over our ideas.’
‘You cannot meet someone of Gérard’s seniority on your own. I’ll come with you. And for God’s sake wear a suit before you come face to face with a client.’
Polly opened her mouth to argue but he was already striding across the floor towards the elevator.
Her confidence well and truly punctured, she stared after him and decided that she’d rather stab herself in the eye than sleep in his apartment. So what if a few journalists were waiting for her outside? She’d dealt with journalists before. And she was so tired and moody they’d probably take one look at her face and realise the danger of getting too close.
Exhausted and dejected, Polly worked for another hour and then pushed her feet into her boots, dropped her phone into her pocket and enjoyed the silent, panoramic downward glide in the elevator. The thought of Damon Doukakis joining her on her trip to Paris horrified her. She just wanted to get on with her work and avoid him as much as possible.
She was just wondering whether there was some way she could lose him at the train station when the lift doors opened onto the foyer.
Glancing towards the security guard who was occupied with a group of people at the desk, she stepped out onto the street and was instantly mobbed.
‘Polly, do you have a statement about Damon Doukakis taking over your father’s company?’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘Is there any truth in the rumour that he’s with Damon’s sister?’
An elbow lanced her kidneys and Polly winced and turned. ‘Ow! Just mind where you—’ Jostled and pushed, she lost her balance and her head smashed against something hard and cold. There was a blinding flash and something hot and wet trickled down her face.
Blood, she thought dizzily, and then the world went black.
‘SHE what? Which hospital?’ Abandoning his date in the middle of dinner, Damon pocketed his phone and strode out to the limo, his security team clearing the throng of journalists who haunted his every move. ‘How badly is she hurt?’
‘The hospital wouldn’t give details, sir.’ Franco, his driver, manoeuvred skilfully through the heavy London traffic. ‘Just told me it was a head injury, but they’re keeping her in overnight so it must be bad.’
Undoing his bow tie with a few flicks of his fingers, Damon leaned back against the seat of the car and attempted to rein in his frustration.
Why the hell had she left the building? He’d left precise instructions that she should stay in the apartment. Instructions she’d apparently ignored.
The girl was an utter disaster.
Part of him was tempted to leave her to suffer for her own stupidity but another part was acutely aware that she was on her own in hospital and no one knew how to contact her father.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘Ring the press anonymously, Franco. Make sure they know she’s in hospital.’
His driver glanced in the rearview mirror. ‘They put her there, boss.’
‘I don’t mean the tabloids, I mean broadcast media. Ring the news desk. Tell them that Miss Prince has been badly injured in an accident and we don’t know how long she’ll be in hospital. Keep it vague and worrying. I want the story on the next news headlines. With pictures, to make sure they know which hospital.’
Surely hearing news that his only daughter was in hospital should flush Peter Prince out from hiding?
Optimistic that this latest development could be turned to his advantage, Damon forced himself to relax as they negotiated traffic but his underlying concern for his sister was growing with every hour she failed to make contact.
Arianna had been six years old when their parents had died. Landed with the towering responsibility of caring for her, Damon had grown up overnight. He’d understood that she was now his responsibility. That it was his job to prevent his little sister from being hurt. What he hadn’t realised it was that the biggest threat to her happiness would come from Arianna herself.
What if she did something stupid like marrying the guy?
Fifteen minutes later his limousine pulled up in the ambulance bay of the large city hospital and Damon sprang from the car and strode into the emergency department, relieved to be able to focus on something other than the dubious life choices made by his sister.
The hospital was heaving but the crowd of people at the desk took one look at him and parted like the Red Sea.
The receptionist immediately sat up straight and smoothed her hair. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a friend of mine.’ Damon bestowed his most winning smile on the dazzled woman. ‘Polly Prince. She was knocked out and brought in by ambulance. I expect she’s on a trolley somewhere.’
‘Prince—Prince—’ Her expression glazed, the girl finally dragged her eyes from his face and checked the records. ‘Cubicle One. But you can’t—’
‘Is that left or right?’ Well aware of the effect he had on women, Damon wasn’t afraid to use it to his advantage when it suited him. ‘I’m so grateful for your help.’
‘Left through the double doors,’ she said breathlessly. ‘The doctor is with her.’
‘Efaristo. Thank you.’ Flashing her a smile, he strode through the doors before anyone had time to challenge him and found himself in a cubicle, empty except for a doctor who looked as though she were about to explode.
Damon felt a flash of empathy. ‘Don’t tell me. You just had an encounter with Polly and now you need to go to anger management classes.’ In one glance he took in the empty trolley and the bloodstained bandage. ‘Where is she?’
‘She